


When everything is different and nothing is changed

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, but they have each other, they are both sad people with nightmares, they're in love but are too stupid to admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:57:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5304863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, he asks, in a quiet, secretive voice: “Why did you kiss me earlier?”<br/>Draco swallows, and his eyes dance between Harry’s mouth and his eyes.<br/>“Because I wanted to,” he says. His voice is hoarse, making Harry’s pulse even more frantic.<br/>“Do you still want to?” he asks. By now they’re both breathing heavily in anticipation. Their eyes lock and Harry sees his own fever matched in them.<br/>They meet in the middle.</p><p>__</p><p>Harry returns to Hogwarts after having been gone for a few years, and finds a changed Draco there. They have a lot of nightmares between them, but along the way they grow to also have each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you. These guys again. I like them to be angsty and in love, so here you go: They're, once again, angsty and in love. Hope you enjoy! Do shoot me a comment if you like it.

Trees blur into silhouettes outside of the train window, blending into the grey of the sky. The seat rattles beneath him, in a way he hadn’t noticed back when he was a kid who first started taking it. Still, The Hogwarts Express haven’t lost all of its’ magic to him. ‘Still like riding trains, do you?’ Harry thinks to himself.

He looks back down to the blank piece of notebook paper in front of him. He’s been trying to jot down his thoughts, lately, but they don’t seem to want to be documented very much. Giving up on the writing endeavour, he instead settles further into his seat, pulling his jacket around him against the cold, and tries to close his eyes. 

When he gets off the train at the station, the air is cold and clammy, and the sky continues to be the ominous kind of grey that promises rain not too far from now, possibly just by the time you expect the danger to have passed. 

It’s the middle of the summer holidays, but Harry knows for a fact that the school hasn’t been shot down. He’s meeting Neville, firstly, who has acquired the job of herbology teacher. McGonagall should be around as well; Harry knows she’d like to talk to him about politics. He might even be up for it, sometime. 

Once he makes it to the grounds – by broom, no less – he is both tired and hungry, and a bit grumpy for it. It’s only lunchtime, but he hasn’t yet had breakfast. 

He finds Neville at the stair-filled entrance from the east yard moments later, waving enthusiastically to Harry. Despite himself, Harry lets a small smile crawl onto his features. He has missed his friends.

“Hey,” he calls to the other man. And man he sure is. Having reached the age of 21 while Harry has been away, Neville looks so much more like a grown man than Harry has ever seen him before. Healthy, he looks, too.

“Hello stranger,” Neville calls, shaking Harry out of it. “Good to have you back. How are you?”

 

They end up in the kitchen, where Harry is presented with a nice, hot lunch and a good steaming cup of tea, all of which he dives into gratefully. 

“How was America?” Neville asks. Harry has spent the last two years there, after needing to escape everything in London and England. He’s wondered many times if it was a selfish decision, but has almost arrived at the conclusion that, no matter if it was or not, it was earned. 

“Very strange,” Harry discloses. “Very different. They don’t hold on to traditions as much over there. No parchment in sight.” Neville chuckles at that. “Electricity was used and everything. I was quite shocked.” 

“I can imagine,” Neville says, smiling. “Not entirely what I meant, though.” The carefree bubble bursts, and Harry looks down at the table and shrugs.

“It helped. I think. I think I might be ready to come back for good now.”

“That’s good,” Neville says. 

“Yeah. I missed you guys, you know.”

“And we missed you,” Neville smiles, nudging Harry’s foot with his own under the table. 

“Ta.” 

“You sleeping alright? We’ve been doing some very successful experiments with this new natural herb that might help your sleeping, if you’d like to try it. Draco is on it. He says it helps.”

For a moment Harry is taken aback by the mention. For once he’s not lying, if he says it’s been a while since he’s considered Malfoy.

“Draco?” he asks, nonetheless, his curiosity peaked. 

“Yeah. He’s here. Didn’t you know” Neville asks. Harry shakes his head no.

“Oh. Well. He’s studying potions with the new potions master. I think he's doing independent work right now.”

“No surprise there,” Harry says, and is aware of the sarcastic, almost bitter tone of his voice. Neville sure picks up on it, too. 

“He’s alright, you know,” he says. “He’s changed a lot.”

“Are you friends with him now?”

“We’ve talked,” Neville reveals, but leaves it at that. “Anyway. Let’s not discuss Draco. You said you might want to go check out the new labs? There have been quite some renovations going on while you’ve been gone.”

Harry lets the subject be changed, and agrees to go explore the new additions to the school.

 

Naturally Harry’s next step of Being Back is to go see Ron and the rest of the Weasley’s, now including Hermione, with only a ring to be missing. They’re practically married, those two. When he appears, he is nearly smothered by the two in a large group-hug, followed by hours upon hours of shared stories. He tells them the same things he told Neville, and a lot more, and they in turn tell him about the changing feelings within the wizarding world, the family, and them. Harry feels as if healing might be within reach.

The house is warm and cosy as ever, and most of the Weasley's are there with their new families. George and Angelina. Harry isn't sure he saw that one coming, but he's happy for them. It’s lively, in a way Harry hasn’t experienced for a while. Sleeping at the house, in Ron’s room, almost feels like being back in his school-year times. He doesn’t entirely mind.

 

While Harry did enjoy visiting the whole family, he does decline staying with them for a longer period of time. It’s true that he doesn’t really have a place to stay though, so he rents a room at the Three Broomsticks, and moves in there with his very limited possessions. 

He starts spending a lot of time in McGonagall’s office – she is now the Hogwarts headmaster – either discussing politics or simply just talking. More often than not McGonagall will at some point during these discussions mention Malfoy in some or other capacity. 

“Mr Malfoy has been kind in discussing with me the effect of living in the Slytherin House on him, and how he might have felt differently, had he been forced to interact with more people of different backgrounds.”

“You mean if he had been next to anyone who wasn’t pureblood, he’d have been kind to them? Did you know him?”

“I don’t think he’s entirely wrong, Harry,” McGonagall will say, and so the subject will often be left there. Harry might rile himself up to appear more upset with Malfoy than he actually is. Old habits die hard, as they say. Truthfully, he might actually be able to understand and even relate to some of what McGonagall is saying. As if he’d ever voice that out loud, though. 

 

All of this talk does however bring with it the fact that Harry soon after chooses to go seek Malfoy out. He doesn’t know if it’s just out of desire to see this change for himself, or what else could possibly inspire this kind of motivation or desire in him. Really. 

So, about two weeks after he arrived back on campus, Harry makes the trip down the stairs to the basement, where he has been told he’ll be able to find the potions-studying Mafloy buried in his experiments. 

Once in the basement corridor, Malfoy’s lab isn’t hard to find. That fact is not due to a string of serenities or other swears coming from his door, like Harry might have expected, but from a different sound altogether. The one of Malfoy humming to himself.

Harry stops in front of the door to just listen for a moment, but is thrown out of it by the stopping of the humming sounds, a long pause, and then Malfoy calling “Hello?” at the door. Might as well face the beast then, Harry thinks to himself, and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says to Malfoy’s stunned expression.

__

So, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter end up in a bar. That sounds like the start of some sort of dumb Hogwarts-student-joke, Harry is acutely aware, but it is nevertheless true. In fact, they end up in Broomsticks, right under the room that Harry is renting out. Talk about coincidences. 

For awkward silence to exist, it has to be the silence from something, even if it is just the expectation of conversation. Now, Harry and Malfoy have never been great at conversing with each other, so the minutes of silence after they sit down with their beers can’t even be described with that adjective. They’re just plain weird, Harry thinks, and realises that by asking Malfoy here, he has sort of forced this situation upon himself. 

“So,” Malfoy says to him, lifting his eyebrows, apparently getting enough of the not-talking. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Harry agrees. “Miss me?” Malfoy doesn’t smile. 

“How was the States?”

“We don’t have to make small-talk.”

“What else kind of talk are we going to make?” Malfoy asks. “If this is to be angry with me, then please get on with it. I mean, I deserve it. Doesn’t have to happen in a public place though.”

“No,” Harry says. “No, no. That’s not– I haven’t asked you here to yell at you.”

Malfoy lifts his eyebrows again, this time in disbelief. 

“Okay,” he concedes hesitantly. “Erhm.” He seems to disappear into thought, and then: “Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Did it help? Make it easier, I don’t know. Going to America, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, quite truthfully. “I just… Couldn’t be here anymore.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy nods. “I get that.” 

“You stayed though,” Harry comments. 

“Yeah, well. I’m a war criminal, so,” Malfoy says and shrugs. “Besides, I didn’t want to run anymore. Or like, hide and submit. I needed to do something.”

Harry takes a sip of his beer, and lets a silence wash over them, where they both are left to think. Harry has a lot of those: Thoughts. Apparently Malfoy does, too. 

“So, listen,” Malfoy interrupts their not-speaking. “We could sit here and have long conversations about our pasts and our past actions, and it could be very much like two dumb sob stories, except you’re the hero and I’m the villain. Or,” he suggests, “We could play a game of wizard chess.”

 

“Queen to B4,” Draco says calmly, his voice revealing no emotion of triumph. “Check mate.”

Harry makes a grimace at him, pretending to be more upset over losing than he actually is, and is rewarded by something of a smile from Draco. Draco. Is his name. Which Harry has now begun using in his head. Old habits die easily in fact, it would seem, tonight. 

“Don’t gloat,” he says, scrunching up his nose in dismay, which Draco responds to by saying “Ha ha,” and smirking down at the table slightly. Harry finds himself doing the same, and is filled with the realisation that he hasn’t had a smile of this kind on his face, let alone one he’s trying to hide, for a long, long while.

They do the smiling thing for quite a bit more, until Draco again is the one to interrupt them:

“I am sorry, you know. About everything. What I did. What I tried to do. You know, the whole lot of it.” 

Harry doesn’t reply. No; in a brief moment of insanity he responds by leaning in and pressing a kiss to Draco’s lips instead. 

Draco pulls away, and for a moment Draco looks taken aback, but then his expression softens. Somehow Harry decides that’s a good sign, and tries to kiss him once more. This time he’s allowed, and even kissed back, but only for a brief moment before Draco pulls back away. A smile is on his face again, but this one is laden with sadness. 

“No,” he says, with that sad smile, and some sad eyes to go with it. “Not here, or like this.” 

Harry looks at his lips and back up at his eyes.

“That doesn’t mean ‘not ever’,” he says. This time Draco looks at Harry’s lips, biting the bottom of his own. 

“No. It doesn’t,” he says. 

“When?” Harry asks. They both look at the others lips at the same time, and chuckle. 

“Why do you suddenly want to kiss me so badly, Potter?” Draco asks, but this is not sneering, it’s flirty banter.

“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly. 

“Well, I don’t know either,” Draco says. “When, I mean.”

“But sometime?”

“Yeah, alright,” Draco smiles. “Sure. Sometime.”


	2. Friends

So they start hanging out, which is probably the last thing Harry could have ever imagined they’d do. Become fuckbuddies, sure, he wouldn’t have been opposed to that. But being something akin to friends? Not a chance.

 

Except, as it turns out, they actually fit quite well together. Draco’s humour is perverse and morbid more often than not, and Harry finds himself laughing hard, and even occasionally blushing, when Draco has first gotten started. They can play chess, and talk about books, and do have quite a bit in common. Harry finds himself wondering what his life would have been like if he’d taken Draco’s hand and shaken it on his first day of Hogwarts. Would he have been a Slytherin, and gone over to the dark side, or would he have been able to pull Draco away from it sooner? He doesn’t know. 

It’s not just the gleeful things, however. They don’t talk much about the war, or everything before it, but somehow when they do, it seems that they understand and relate to each other very well. Draco was isolated and scared too, just in a different way, and in a different position than Harry. He was also forced to make hard choices. 

 

It doesn’t take long of their acquaintanceship before McGonagall notices how he is often around, and suggests that he moves in to one of the empty teacher’s rooms until summer ends. So he does. In result, he is now sharing a common room dormitory with the rest of the present people, which would involve Neville, Draco, McGonagall herself, and the new housekeeper. Weirdly enough, he quite enjoys it. 

He doesn’t spend all of his time with Draco. The opposite, really. He attempts to spend less time with him than he’d actually really like, if he felt he were completely free to simply do as he liked. This world includes judging people though, and his mind is judging itself, so mostly he just wanders about. 

 

Other times he spends discussing politics with McGonagall, but this time Draco is included as well. 

“The housing system does have a historic value, we mustn’t forget that. Especially the ministry would hold on very tightly to that,” McGonagall says, and it’s not the first time they’ve all had this conversation. Draco sighs. 

“I mean, obviously,” he says. “But female witches not being allowed to practise their magic is also a part of history, and, some might say, served a purpose back then, but we don’t hang on to that, do we? Pureblood purity also has historical value, at least if you ask my father. I think we all agree that’s kind of stupid here now, don’t we. It’s a tired argument.” 

This is often where they get stuck. They agree, all of them, but finding the right argument, strong enough to convince the sceptics, is the hard part. 

“Okay,” Harry says, and decides to say something he’s never said out loud before. “Consider this: what if I had been sorted into Slytherin?”

The two other heads almost break on their necks, so quickly do they turn to him. 

“You don’t know this,” he says to Draco, “but I was almost sorted into your house. The hat only chose to put me in Gryffindor because I asked it not to send me to Slytherin. Begged, really.”

Draco frowns, incredulous.

“But you don’t have any Slytherin character traits,” Draco protests. Harry thinks Draco might be too kind on him, but doesn’t say.

“You also don’t know this,” he says, and continues: “I lived with a part of Voldemort inside me for all of my school years.” 

Draco, no blame on him, nearly chokes at the words. Suppose it is sort of a strange thing to disclose just like that. Harry tries to inform him about the situation as quickly as possible, and cements that the information is vital to the thought experiment.

“So,” he says, when Draco is somewhat informed, “What I’m getting at is this: You get sorted when you’re eleven. At that time most of your character traits aren’t even fully formed yet. If I’d been sorted into Slytherin – a likely possibility – my life would have looked completely different, right? Maybe if I hadn’t had my friends, I wouldn’t have been strong enough. Maybe if I’d been indoctrinated into pureblood thinking – not that all Slytherins think like that, but follow me – who knows if I’d fought on the winning side of the war? I would have been so much more vulnerable to Voldemort’s influence.”

McGonagall looks at him, and wears an expression of consideration, so Harry knows he’s started a new thought-chain within her brain. Draco, however, looks sceptical. 

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” he says. “You’re a good person. I don’t think you’d have let other people die for you, regardless of which house you’d been in.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, not entirely sure Draco’s right. Maybe Draco is giving him too much credit. “But the point is there: Grouping people with the same ideas together can further those thoughts, and take away any chance of seeing and listening to other perspectives, and in the end cause extremism.”

“Also,” he continues, “it’s just a breeding ground for prejudice. From purebloods, sure, but also against Slytherins. Just look at what I said less than a minute ago: I literally begged the housing hat not to sort me into Slytherin. And I’d been a part of the wizarding world for only days. We create that prejudice in kids, and then we normalise it – the faculty can even contribute to it.”

McGonagall purses her lips in thought, and makes a quick note on a piece of parchment next to her. 

“Maybe you two should join in on the legal process,” she says, more like a joke than anything else, but Harry sees the lights go off in Draco’s eyes; he at least wants that.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Harry concedes. Draco shrugs, then nods. 

They’re shooed out not long after, but Harry still has something on his mind. 

“Can you imagine what’d have happened if I’d shaken your hand on our first day?” he asks Draco once they’re out in the hallways again, the stairs disappearing behind them. “If we’d been friends instead of enemies?” Draco watches him, and his expression is sombre and serious. 

To his immense and very extreme surprise, Draco responds by leaning in, making Harry take a step back in surprise, cornering himself against the wall, before Draco kisses him. It’s hungry and fast and over very quickly.

“That, I think,” Draco says, and then he turns around on his heels and leaves. Harry is left back against the wall, confused and with lips still burning from the hard kiss. He touches them and lets his legs give out from under him, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor. What the fuck just happened? And why does he want it so much?

 

For a long while Harry feels unable to walk anywhere, so by the time he makes it back to the dormitory Draco is long out of sight. Harry doesn’t go looking for him, and Draco doesn’t come back before long after Harry has gone to sleep.

 

He wakes up screaming. 

The nightmares have a way of sneaking up on him, cloaked liked the dementors were, hidden, until they strike into him with their claws and rip him apart. They don’t come every night, but when they do they’re so strong and unexpected that he is left shaking. 

Sleep is an impossibility now. With bare feet on wooden planks Harry lists downstairs in an attempt to get out of his room and his own head. They have a simple tea-brewing set in the corner of the living room; how unequivocally British, solving even the worst of dreams with a warm beverage. America apparently hasn’t rubbed off on him. 

Harry is standing with his back to the staircase, so he doesn’t see when someone else enters the room. He hears him though, when he voices the simple greeting of a “Hey.” To Harry it is so unexpected however, that his entire body jumps in fright, causing his hand to tremble even more than it already was. 

“Sorry,” Draco says quietly and calmly, reminding Harry of the tone of voice they were all taught to use when speaking to Buckbeak. He feels more than hears or sees Draco moving up behind him, and placing his hand on Harry’s elbow. For a moment they both look at Harry’s shaking hand, before they look up and their eyes meet. Draco is smiling softly, but Harry can feel it covering over something more sombre; something like concern. 

Draco grabs onto Harry’s wrist, steadying his hand, before he gently pries the teacup out of his hand and continues the rest of the brewing for Harry. 

“Bad dream?” he asks with his back turned, giving Harry the option of not meeting his eyes or concealing his real emotions. Harry knows that, because he’s apt at playing that kind of game of care himself. 

“To say the least,” he reveals, deciding to go with honesty. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Draco asks. Something in his tone makes it different than all the other times Harry has heard that phrase. He doesn’t sound like he’s already said it a billion times today, or like he says it out of obligation; he sounds like he genuinely would like to know.”

“Do you have them, too?” Harry asks, replying like that. 

“The nightmares?”

“Yeah.”

“Almost every night. If I don’t use potions or herbs, at least.”

“Really?” Harry asks, surprised. Not even he has that. Draco turns around from his ministrations and eyes him with his brows furrowed as if in thought. 

“You probably dream of dying? Death?” Draco asks instead of answering directly. 

“Yeah. Dementors. Myself dying. Watching people die. Not being able to save them.” 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. They move to the armchairs with their cups, and Harry settles in with his knees bended in front of his chest. He feels vulnerable tonight. 

“It’s not your fault,” Harry says, like he has a tendency to with people tell him they’re sorry for his wounds. He momentarily forgets that you could argue some of it was. Judging by the spasm of a grimace on Draco’s face it seems he has the same thought. 

“What if it is?” Draco asks. “If you could see a map of direct cause and effect, and I was the cause, how could you possibly keep talking to me like you are right now.”

“Draco,” Harry whispers. 

“That’s what I dream about,” Draco says, continuing in the same tone as before. “I dream that I have to find out how many people’s death I caused indirectly. I dream that I’m on the pulling end of the trigger.”

A lump in Harry’s throat grows. He can’t help it. What Draco’s words inspire in him isn’t hatred or disgust, but recognition. 

“Draco,” he says. “I dream of that, too.” 

Draco raises his head swiftly to make their eyes meet.

“Harry, you saved everyone.”

“No, I didn’t. I saved some people. And I lost some, because I was too slow.”

Draco looks like he’s about to say something in protest, but then he doesn’t. Harry appreciates it. 

“It’s true,” he says. “Let’s not lie to each other. If nothing else, I’ve always counted on you to be honest with me.”

“I don’t know if bullying equals honesty,” Draco mumbles, making Harry smile. 

“Still,” he says. “I have enough people in my life who sometimes believe me to be much greater than I actually am.”

“So, honesty,” Draco says, and then: “Do you think I could ever be forgiven for what I did? Or do you think I’m a bad person?”

Harry considers Draco, and considers the question. He thinks of the conversations Draco have with McGonagall, he thinks about Draco spending his days studying hard. He thinks about how he will sometimes say something stupid just to make Harry laugh. He thinks about how Draco hasn’t visited his parents for a year, and says he won’t until they admit their fault. This, particularly, is directed at his father. 

“I think you’re a victim of your circumstances most of all,” Harry says. “And the rest you’ve changed.”

Their eyes lock, their breaths quickening; there’s something about this vulnerability that leaves Harry sort of thrilled. 

“I forgive you,” he says. Draco’s eyes widen, and then they fall to Harry’s lips. The man in question thinks his heart might give up from anxiety.

Still, he asks, in a quiet, secretive voice: “Why did you kiss me earlier?” 

Draco swallows, and his eyes dance between Harry’s mouth and his eyes. 

“Because I wanted to,” he says. His voice is hoarse, making Harry’s pulse even more frantic.

“Do you still want to?” he asks. By now they’re both breathing heavily in anticipation. Their eyes lock and Harry sees his own fever matched in them.

They meet in the middle. Their bodies crash into each other’s as their lips do the same, and they both tug harshly and desperately at each other. Harry feels like the kiss might be hard enough to be bruising, but he can’t exactly bring himself to care. He’s surprised to find how angry it is, but it doesn’t feel angry because of their past. He’s angry because of how much he wants this. 

Draco gasps as Harry walks them over to Draco’s chair and pushes him into it, before sitting astride his body, grapping his collar and letting Draco’s hands twist into his hair. None of them attempt to rid the other of his clothes; if they’re too scared, or they just know this isn’t that, Harry doesn’t know. Draco tugs at Harry's hair and Harry in turn bites Draco's bottom lip. He wouldn’t be surprised if they both have bruises in a days time from this. 

Perhaps it’s almost good how they hear footsteps descending the stairs seconds later, because Harry is almost scared to think where this would have gone if they hadn’t been interrupted. Their ears must pick up on the sound at the same time, because as soon as Harry starts scrambling off the chair, Draco starts pushing him away, causing a situation where Harry nearly falls flat on his ass on the floor. Almost to Harry’s relief, Draco chuckles at the scene. 

It’s Neville who appears on the bottom of the stairs, thank God, because Harry doesn’t know what he would have done if it had been McGonagall. The chair that Draco is still sitting in is facing the stairs, so there’s really no possible way that Neville doesn’t realise what was just going on. 

“Right,” Neville says when he sees them, looking tired and groggy and like he’s not entirely sure that he’s actually awake. “I will not get mixed up in this." He promptly turns on his heels and walks back up the stairs again. 

They only have to look at each other for a second before they burst into laughter. Harry ends up grapping hold of the chair’s armrest to steady himself, while he chuckles. When they look at each other again the anger has disappeared and left is only fond amusement. Harry leans in with a smile on his face to kiss Draco again, but isn’t surprised when he is stopped by a hand to the middle of his chest. 

“No,” Draco says and shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. 

“Have you stopped wanting to?”

“No,” Draco says again. “But it’s not a good idea. You can’t always get what you want.”

Harry sighs, but he knows it’s decided. No matter what it can’t happen tonight. He may not entirely understand, but he accepts it. 

“Will I get another chance sometime? If whatever makes you think this is a bad idea disappears?”

Draco chuckles and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re incredible. Relentless.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “With your consent I am. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Draco says. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. But why? You could have anyone.”

“Well ‘anyone’ will just have to wait,” Harry smiles. Draco sighs, but it’s not sad or exhausted, it’s just like he’s reconciling himself with the situation.

“So what now?” he asks. 

“So now we’re friends,” Harry says. And so they are.


	3. Nightmare

Surprisingly it isn’t Harry who suggests that Draco comes over the next time the Weasley’s host a dinner. It’s Neville, who is of course invited, too. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” he says to Harry a few days before the dinner, as they’re talking over a game of wizard chess. “But Draco has been quite a few times now, and it would be kind of cruel to cut him off just because– well. Whatever it is you two are doing.”

“I get it,” Harry says. “It’s fine, I want him there. He’s my friend.”

“Boyfriend?” Neville asks, and apparently doesn’t think of that as being completely impossible. 

“No, just friends,” Harry says. “What you saw, it wasn’t… We aren’t together, and it hasn’t, you know. Continued.”

“Don’t need to know any more details, mate,” Neville says, scrunching up his nose, and Harry laughs. He lets the feeling settle in, and realises that he’s actually happy. 

 

The Weasley house is crowded as always, but even more so with Neville, Draco, and even Andromeda and Teddy there as well. Clearly Harry has missed out on quite a lot of development in that department, that apparently Draco – or Neville for that sake – didn’t feel the need to inform him of. 

They eat a lovely dinner. Harry finds himself seated between Ginny and Neville. 

“Did you meet any hot guys in America, at least?” Ginny asks him first thing, and Harry thinks things might be okay between them, despite the fact of their breakup some two and a half years before. 

“Well,” Harry says, and lets himself be dragged into the gossip. You only have the fun you make yourself, really, so why not make some fun out of it?

 

Afterwards Harry spends some good catching-up time with Teddy. Realising that the child doesn’t remember him is the biggest hit he has had to take about the leaving that he decided to do. Teddy is nothing if not charming though, and he gleefully lets himself be played with by Harry, blabbering on about everything and all. Seeing the kid, Harry makes the decision to get his game together and be there for him more. And seeing how much love is directed at the kid, he is secure in the knowledge that Teddy will always be safe and protected no matter what. 

Soon after the living room is taken over by a flood of people, so Harry quickly scoops Teddy up in his arms to keep him from being trampled on. Apparently Arthur has secured a small television, but not having a telly license or anything else to watch on it, it hasn’t been used. Hermione has now come to the rescue though, with a copy of 2001 Space Odyssey. It would seem it’s movie time. 

Not long into it Teddy falls asleep in Harry’s arms, so, giving up on the movie, he moves quietly to the next room, where he lies down with Teddy on his stomach on the couch, not wanting to leave him without someone to look after him. He doesn’t even realise that he’s falling asleep before he has fallen.

 

“Harry,” someone whispers to him. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is, feeling only groggy, but then life catches up with him. Several things pray on his conscience when he regains it: Firstly, the weight on his stomach is gone, so someone must have taken Teddy from him while he was sleeping. Secondly, time has passed, because it’s dark outside, which it only is very late at night in the summer. And lastly, it’s Draco’s voice calling him out of slumber. 

“You don’t have to get up,” Draco tells him in a quiet voice, when it’s clear that Harry is awake. “You can just sleep here. If you want to join, Neville and I are going back though.”

“Mm,” is Harry’s only mumbles reply. He’s not quite lost the tired feeling yet. He blinks several times before he can gather himself to open his eyes. Draco is looking down at him, a ceiling light behind him, giving him the appearance of having an angel’s halo. 

“Where’s everyone?” he asks when he realises how quiet it is in the house.

“They’ve gone to bed,” Draco says. “It’s only us and Ron and Hermione. Are you coming back?”

“Hm?” Harry says again. Then: “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sure, hold on,” he says, and tries to sit up, feeling in his limbs to find out how numb they are. He gets up, but that results in all of his blood rushing from his head, so he briefly gets the dizzies. Draco reaches out to steady him by the shoulder.

“Alright?” 

“Yeah, fine,” Harry mumbles. “Ta.” 

He can’t lie though. He is exhausted and a bit dizzy, so gratefully accepts Draco’s shoulder to steady himself on, as they enter the fireplace in order to take the Floo network back. Neville is right after them. 

Less than five minutes later Harry is back in his own bed. He left the others somewhere down in the living room. He wasn’t entirely observant, so he doesn’t really know where. Right before he falls back asleep he decides he doesn’t care.

 

When he wakes once again it is to the sound of someone else tossing and turning, and emitting loud sounds. This time it isn’t himself. It’s Draco, whose room is right next to Harry’s. It’s amazing really, how he’s never heard any of Draco’s nightmares before. 

It doesn’t sound like he’s close to waking up. Instead, the sounds continue for what must be at least ten minutes. Harry lies in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if he should do anything. Before he can reach a conclusion, Draco’s nightmare must reach a peak, because he emits a roaring yell, and Harry can clearly hear the sound of someone being forcefully pulled out of sleep. 

Harry could ignore it, he really could. But then again, he can’t really. Regardless of everything else he’s come to be Draco’s friend, and to care about him. He has to see if he’s okay. 

 

Harry gets out of his bed quietly, trying not to make any sounds to alert the probably on-edge-Draco in the next room. He quickly tugs on a pair of sweatpants before he lists out of his own room and the few steps across the hallway until he’s standing in front of Draco’s door. He opens it just slightly, enough to let Draco know he’s there, but also little enough so that Draco can still refuse to let him in. He doesn’t want to intrude on a nightmare after all. He knows how much you sometimes just want to be left alone after one.

“Draco?” he calls into the darkness of the room.

“Oh. It’s you,” Draco says, and he sounds relieved.

“It’s me,” Harry agrees. “Can I come in? You can say no.”

Draco is silent for a moment, before Harry hears him sighing softly. “Yeah. You can come in,” he says, so Harry pushes open the door and closes it softly behind him. Draco is sitting up in the bed, the duvet drawn around his legs, his torso hidden behind his arms.

He tiptoes up to Draco’s bed, and only when they’re less than a meter apart can Harry actually make out Draco’s face. He has some very effective light-cancelling curtains that man.

“Hey,” he says softly. The night doesn’t really invite louder sounds. 

“Hi,” Draco says. He lies back down on his bed and breathes deeply. Harry invites himself to sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

“Was I loud?” Draco asks. 

“A bit,” Harry admits honestly. “Are you alright?”

Draco is silent for such a long time that Harry starts to suspect he just won’t answer the question. Then:

“Not really.”

“No. You don’t have to be,” Harry murmurs. He places his hand above Draco’s ankle and raises his eyebrows at him in question: ‘Can I?’ Draco nods, so Harry lets his fingers wrap around the fragile looking body part. 

“Is it always this bad?” he asks. Draco’s chest isn’t rising and falling so quickly anymore, so Harry thinks he might be calming down. 

“Yeah,” Draco admits. “When they happen, they happen pretty intensely. Neville's herbs help with the frequency, but the really intense ones still get through.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says quietly, honestly. “That you have to go through this.”

“I’m sorry that you have to go through something like this, too,” Draco whispers. Harry smiles softly. For a long time they just share the silence, until Draco’s eyes start drooping again. Harry’s eyes have gotten used to the dark by now, something, which, judging by the fact that Draco’s shirt is off, probably isn’t something that he’s considered. Harry had always wondered if the spell he cast on Draco in sixth left scars on his chest. Now he sees that it did. Not only that, but on his left arm, Harry can see Draco’s faded-but-still-there dark mark. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone whose skin can tell of so much. Except, maybe, himself. 

When he looks back to Draco’s face, he sees that he’s being watched. Draco is simply studying Harry watching him. Maybe he’s anticipating what Harry’s reaction will be, having decided that he can do nothing more to inform it. 

“Can I touch it?” Harry whispers, letting his eyes fall to the mark again to show what he means. Draco studies him. Then he nods. 

Harry uncrosses his legs from beneath himself and crawls up to the headrest of the bed, taking the new position of being stretched out next to Draco on top of his covers. He glances into Draco’s eyes once, before he turns his attention to the mark. Draco twists his arm so the mark is facing as much upwards as it can. 

Harry puts the tips of his fingers to it. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen, really. He knows logically that by now it’s just a tattoo, but somehow he expected to feel something more than just the texture of Draco’s soft inner-underarm-skin beneath his fingers. He grabs Draco’s underarm and runs his thumb over the mark, seeing the skin there go whiter with the pressure, and returning to its normal colour once Harry lets go again. 

“It’s just a tattoo,” he mumbles then. To his surprise Draco looks like he understands when Harry looks up from the arm. 

“And my past. But yes. Right now it’s just a tattoo,” Draco agrees. Harry sighs and positions himself more comfortably on his side, but so he’s still able to look Draco in the eye. 

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” he asks. “Or do you want to get up.”

“I think I’m alright,” Draco says after some consideration. Harry nods. He doesn’t go though. Instead he asks, “Those scars on your chest?”

“I was wondering if you’d comment,” Draco says, and he’s almost smiling. 

“Did I do that?”

“Yeah. You did,” Draco says. “Don’t feel too bad, though. I’ve been told they’re alluring before.” 

Harry laughs softly. Sometimes things between he and Draco get very serious and tough, but Draco is always good at lighting the mood in the right way, at the right time, but still allowing the serious things to exist on their own. Harry wonders where he acquired that skill. 

“Can I touch them, too?” Harry asks. “I just– Want to feel.” 

Draco smiles briefly, softly, before nodding for Harry to go on. This time Harry notices his own hand is trembling slightly when he puts it to Draco’s chest. He still remembers the blood spilling out of it. He lets his fingertip follow the first scar from its’ place just over Draco’s left nipple and down to his right hip. Then he follows the other one, which travels straight across Draco’s chest, just above his navel. He does that for a while, getting caught up in the memories and all of his simmering, bubbling feelings about that night, and everything that has happened since. He looks up, trying to form some kind of sentence that can express what is going on in his thoughts, but sees Draco’s eyes closed to the world. He discovers how Draco’s breath has evened out, like he’s fast on track to sleep. So, instead of saying anything, Harry just continues to let his fingers run over the scars of their past, sending Draco into dream-world with the hope that the touch will be soothing and keep his dreams safe from all of his monsters. He waits an hour before he leaves and goes back to his own bed.

 

It’s windy out the next morning, so Harry takes his duvet with him down into the living room and decides to spend his day there reading. A little after eight Neville joins him for breakfast, and they eat it over a game of cards. Draco doesn’t join them until a quarter past nine. 

“Someone’s a heavy sleeper today,” Harry says when he enters, but sends him a great smile, before putting down a card. In reply Draco steals a grape and a cracker off Harry’s plate and says, “Must be the credit of your magic hands.” 

Neville splutters on his coffee, and goes a bit pink. Both Harry and Draco laugh fondly, and Draco reaches out to ruffle Neville’s hair, which Neville frowns deeply at.

“I’m sure you have magic hands as well,” Draco says instead of clarifying. Neville buries his head in his hands and shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. 

“Guys, come on,” he protests. When he raises his head he looks so petulant that they all laugh together. It feels good. 

 

The small wind cumulates into a great storm one days later. The wind slamming against the stonewalls make for a great debacle of a sound, and they react by all cozying up in the living room. The basement becomes too cold for Draco to work in, so he lets go of his experiments for a few days, and they all end up hanging out, eating pastries and playing games. 

In the evening, Neville goes to bed early, leaving Harry and Draco to entertain each other by playing some wizard chess. It stretches out, and the time is 11, then midnight, then one, then half past, before Draco starts yawning and looking at the stairs leading to the bedrooms. 

“You should go to bed,” Harry says. 

“You aren’t going to?” 

“I’ll just wait a bit,” Harry says, but as the words leave his mouth his eyes turn to the window, where the storm is visible through, revealing his true motivation. He’s almost certain that the storm will cause a nightmare for him, so he’d really rather wait for it to calm down before he tries going to sleep. He does realise the flaw in this plan: that the storm doesn’t seem like one that will be ending before at least a day has passed.

Harry doesn’t know if Draco gathered any of that just from Harry’s expression, but either way Draco simply nods and mumbles a “G’night then,” before he starts gathering his things to head up the stairs.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry calls after him. 

 

He settles in with a book, but it can’t seem to catch his attention. Instead he ends up staring out the window and thinking. He can’t help the slightly melancholy feeling from settling over him. Sometimes he thinks progress is just within reach, but sometimes it feels like he’ll always be vulnerable and having to take precautions to protect his own mental state. He kind of hates it. 

To get out of his own head he puts on some music instead, and lets the sound of it get mixed up with the sound of the wind howling. 

An hour or so passes, and the record is almost finished, when Harry notices the shadow of something walking down the stairs. It is Draco, of course it is, who appears on the bottom of them. 

“You could join me if you want,” he says quietly, and as if this is something he’s spent the last hour thinking about. “If you think it might make it easier,” he continues, and Harry knows he understands and that he feels it, too. It doesn’t take him long to nod in acceptance.

“Yeah,” he says. “It might.”

Draco nods too, and waits for him, hesitantly, before he turns and walks up the stairs before Harry. They end up in Draco’s bed, because it’s Draco who’s leading the way. Draco settles in first, and lies on his back looking at the ceiling, so Harry copies him and does the same. He twists to settle into the mattress better, and much admit that he already feels a bit less uneasy by having another body next to him.

“Do you think you’ll be alright?” Draco asks. If it was anyone else Harry might have protested, feeling like they were treating him too much like a fragile object. With Draco, however, he knows that it’s simply a question that requires an answer, designed to gather how much tossing the night with be filled with or something other. 

“I’m not sure,” he says quite truthfully. Draco simply nods in understanding, before he turns to his side, puts his hand in the crease of Harry’s elbow and burrows into his pillow, closing his eyes. 

“You should still try to sleep, though,” he murmurs.

Harry watches him for a brief moment, acutely aware of the warmth emitting from Draco’s hand on his arm.

“Sweet dreams,” Harry whispers, and chuckles when Draco smiles with his eyes closed. Then Harry closes his own as well. 

 

It would be nice to say that it helped, but it doesn’t. Harry still wakes up screaming from a nightmare, with his heart as well as a heavy lump in his throat, a racing pulse and wet eyes. For the first few seconds it’s a confused frenzy for Harry, before he realises anew where he is, and is drawn back into the real world by Draco’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Harry! Harry,” he says, trying to draw Harry’s attention to him, and make him focus. It works. By watching Draco’s face Harry is drawn out of the last remains of the dream, and is able to simply close his eyes and breathe heavily, trying to get his heartbeat under control. 

“You’re okay,” Draco says. “You’re fine now,” he murmurs, and removes Harry’s hair from where it is falling into his eyes, running his hand over Harry’s forehead. 

“Right?” he prompts.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, but doesn’t know if he means it yet. 

“Look at me,” Draco demands, and grabs Harry by the chin so he is forced to. “Harry.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re fine,” Draco repeats himself, his voice steady, clearly meant to be convincing. Harry doesn’t even really mind how much it works and helps.

“Sorry,” he says, and breathes deeply. 

“Shut up,” is Draco’s reply, and Harry can’t figure out if he wants to laugh or cry. He settles for exhaling shakily.

“Can you– Can you just hold me? For a bit?” he asks. Draco runs his hands over Harry’s hair a couple of times. Then:

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” 

He moves in to put his arms around Harry, and then he does just that: Holds him. No rocking back and forth or caressing his back. It’s just a good, long hug, allowing Harry to calm down safely in someone else’s strong arms. He doesn’t even really notice when they lie down, or when he falls asleep again. 

Not until he wakes up again in the morning and Draco’s arms are still around him.


	4. Feelings

The storm continues to be howling at the windows for the following day, and so again Draco stays away from the basement. In fact they spend some time in the morning just lying around with their respective books. Harry sees the appeal of sharing your bed with someone. That means you can refrain from getting out of it, and still be having company. 

He falls into a bout of peace as he puts down his book, and simply lies, listening to Draco’s occasional chuckle at his book. Lying here sharing a duvet with the other man, feeling his body so close, it all makes him realise how much he really likes this. 

“Are you just going to lie there?” Draco asks, pulling him away from that chain of thought with a pull. He sounds amused. 

“Shh,” Harry says. “I’m calm. I’m zen.”

“Right,” Draco says, but he smiles and his tongue pokes out with it, in the way Harry has only started realising it does recently. 

“Shh,” he repeats himself. Draco shakes his head but continues smiling. 

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” he says instead of commenting further. Harry looks at him like he’s crazy because, well, he is.

“I’m sorry? Did I just hear you say that you’re considering going outside in this weather?” 

“It’s … survivable,” Draco says, and even looks sceptical himself as he glances outside. Harry fully expects to just shrug it off and let Draco fulfil that endeavour himself, but then he is looked at with the most puppyish eyes he’s ever seen in anyone who wasn’t a baby.

“Not fair,” he mumbles grumpily, but he’s already lost, and they both know it. So, okay, they go take a walk. And it’s not at all because Harry is weak to Draco’s eyes, that must be said. It’s very important. He can’t quite remember why. 

 

It’s really very windy and cold outside, but almost as if in a miracle it calms a bit down by the time they make it outside, so Harry doesn’t exactly hate it. It’s fine, really. Not at all because of the way Draco giggles at the sight of Harry’s curls being blown about so violently that Harry is now practically blind. He might as well just not have brought his glasses. 

“Guide me, at least,” Harry says, and is not as grumpy as he lets on. Draco lets him place his hand on Draco’s shoulder. 

They walk along the lakeshore, tossing stones into the water and watching it break, the ripples spreading, like dominos falling, like cause and effect. Harry stands a bit behind him, watching Draco’s back as he stands and overlooks the lake. It looks like the kind of thing you’d take a picture of and look at again in 50 years, when the memories of the day were forgotten, and only the picture of an old friend’s body is remembered. 

Really, if you want to be poetic and picturesque about it, the whole walk feels like the kind of thing you’d record on 8mm film and look back on with a glass of wine someday. Harry experiences the day in the corner of Draco’s mouth when he makes a pebble skip four times and turns around to smile gleefully and proudly in Harry’s direction; in the warmth of Draco’s guiding body beneath his hand throughout the day; in the smile wrinkles by Draco’s eyes; in the sight of the sky being taken over by dark grey more and more, like the colours of the sky are being attacked away.

“What?” Draco asks at some point, when apparently Harry has been too obvious in his observing. They stand across from each other with wind slamming against them, howling in their ears, making their clothes flop about their limbs. Harry shakes his head and shrugs, and then he grins. Draco grins too, he even chuckles, and that’s really all that matters, so Harry chuckles as well, and there they are, the two of them, laughing at each other. It’s an alright place to be, that. 

 

When night falls they’re the last to retire again. They don’t talk about it, but Draco looks at Harry, and Harry looks back, and they end up in Draco’s bed again. The storm is still going, but it might not matter this time, Harry thinks, as he falls asleep to the feeling of Draco’s hand on his shoulder. 

 

He’s wrong. And then he’s not.

He still wakes up screaming, he still shakes into his bones, and he still has to bite his lips not to cry. But, also, Draco is still there, and he knows how to pull Harry out of it, how to steady him when he feels like he’s drowning in his own head. 

Harry doesn’t notice that he’s crying until Draco kisses him and it’s wet. 

“Focus on this,” Draco whispers to him. “Get out of your head,” he murmurs and kisses Harry again in demonstration. It doesn’t feel like the other kisses they’ve shared; it doesn’t even feel romantic, let alone sexual. It feels like the simplest form of physical affection that they have available between them, and so that’s what they’ll use. Right now, in this moment, it’s just about being okay; nothing else, nothing more. 

“You’re alright,” Draco whispers into the dark, and guides Harry back down into a lying position gently. He runs his hands through and over Harry’s hair a couple of times as he repeats himself: “You’re alright.”

Their eyes meet, and for once Harry doesn’t know what to say, so he just takes Draco’s hand and intertwines their fingers, pulling Draco’s arm over his chest with the movement. 

“I’m not sure I am,” he murmurs. The weight is heavy on his chest as he says it, but somehow the weight of Draco’s arm on it takes a bit away from the weight of heavy emotions, so Harry can almost breathe.

“You will be,” Draco says, like he’s personally going to make sure. Maybe he is. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t just mean for that sentence, he means for everything, and he turns his head to look at Draco to make sure that he understands. When Draco responds by pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, Harry thinks he does. 

“You’re a good friend, Draco,” he says. Draco chuckles and squeezes his hand. 

“I’m not usually this physical,” he says. Harry smiles. 

“Maybe we’re just physical people,” he suggests.

“Yeah, maybe.”

They both giggle, and after a few seconds Draco settles down into the pillow further, but doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. 

“We should try to go back to sleep,” he says, and presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. 

So they do.

__

Harry expects that maybe Draco will kick him out of the bed in the morning, or somehow let him know that what happened during the night cannot continue. So, it’s safe to say he’s a little surprised when Draco says nothing. Literally not a thing, does he voice, about the kiss. Reconsidering it, maybe that isn’t so weird after all. They’ve never really been the talking kind. 

 

So, it continues, and this they don’t discuss out loud either. One day Harry simply realizes that he hasn’t slept in his own bed for a little over a week. Some of his nightmares have become quieter; perhaps his body realizes that he’s now sharing a bed with someone else. But even when the loud ones happen Draco is there with his grounding hands and soft words, and occasionally his hard-pressed lips against Harry’s. Sometimes they’ll joke about it during the day, and sometimes they won’t, but Harry is sure that what transpires between them during the darkness of the nights is what is saving him slowly. 

And, alright, perhaps his fondness is growing to become a little more than platonic, too. The really surprising thing however, is how Harry doesn’t feel the need to run away screaming with that realization. Maybe he’s a fool, for doing this with Draco, but if so he became a fool a long time ago, and it’s really too late to go back now. All he knows is that he never feels better than when he’s the one to make Draco smile. 

Harry doesn’t reveal and disclose though, so it all continues to be well and good. Until it isn’t. 

Their relationship, at its current state, has an expiration date, and it’s moving closer and closer by the minute, much faster than Harry is ready for it to. Soon it will be September, and the teachers will start coming back, and then school will start. Draco will go back to being busy all the time, and Harry will go back to being not-here. He can’t continue to hang around these hallways doing nothing for the rest of his life.

 

They’re back down by the lake when the subject comes up. They have a week left. A tension has sneaked up on them and maneuvered between them until it sits like a hairy lump at the place where their hands used to sometimes meet. 

Harry is sitting on a rock a little behind Draco, who is standing up and tossing pebbles into the lake one by one, methodically. He’s wearing shorts; it’s warm out. Harry watches his legs instead of him.

“Are you leaving?” Draco asks then. It’s been sitting between them for days, so by now it isn’t really a new question. It’s just said out loud.

“Probably,” Harry says quietly. 

“Probably?”

“I can’t really be here when the kids come back, you know.”

All they share then is quiet, but it’s not the good kind. It feels like withdrawal, like growing distance between them. 

“We can still se each other,” Harry whispers. “I’m not leaving for good, or anything. I’m just leaving Hogwarts.” 

“Come on, Harry,” Draco says, almost in a sneer. For the first time since he came back, Harry can see some of the old Malfoy in front of him. “You know that won’t happen. This is built from convenience.”

Harry can’t even begin to tell him how so not true that is. But if that is what Draco truly thinks, perhaps it’s best if he simply keeps all of his emotions to himself. He doesn’t have time to make the decision, because when he doesn’t reply immediately Draco mumbles, “I’m going back in,” and turns on his heels to leave instead. Harry watches his back disappearing and doesn’t follow. 

 

Harry goes to bed early that night, and hogs his own duvet tight for the first time in what feels like forever. He’s reading a book by the light of his bedside lamp when his door is pushed open, creaking on its hinges. Harry only sees the outline of Draco’s head and hair against the hallway light. 

“Hey,” he says, and glances at his clock on his bedside table. It’s only a little past eleven. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. He doesn’t have to say what for. Then: “Can I come in?” Harry nods. 

Draco closes the door softly behind him, and lists up to Harry’s bed on his tiptoes. Harry, for the first time almost since they started this, doesn’t really know what to expect. But when Draco looks at him with his worried expression, Harry really can’t be expected to do anything but smile reassuringly to him. Draco swallows. 

Putting the book down on the table, and shutting the light for intimacy purposes, so that they are only bathed in what of the moonlight his curtains let shine through, Harry moves down the bed to lie on his side, his head facing in Draco’s direction. Draco mirrors him. 

“You’re not just convenient,” Harry whispers. Draco looks at him.

“I know,” he says, but his tone is still tinged with melancholy. Harry doesn’t know how to lure it out of him, so he simply taps Draco’s hand where it is lying on the pillow between them with his fingertips, before placing his on top of it. Draco turns his own around, so their fingers can dance against each other’s. 

Draco then grabs Harry’s hand and lets his fingertips run across the veins Harry knows are visible there. It tingles slightly, but in a comfortable way, that makes warm spread from his fingers up his arm and down to the middle of his chest. He studies Draco’s movements as Draco lifts his hand to his lips, and gives each of the knuckles a soft kiss. 

Harry is not entirely sure what is going on, but it looks to him like Draco’s mind is brimming with a hurricane of stuff right now, filled with bunches of white noise, and it looks like he needs to do this, for whatever reason, so Harry lets him. Even when Draco turns his hand around and sucks Harry’s ring finger into his mouth.

In some way, just letting it happen, is like giving over all of his control and handing it to Draco. But somehow Harry doesn’t mind; he doesn’t want any of it. What Draco is doing seems to be for himself, but also for Harry; to give him some sort of pleasure. 

Harry’s pulse picks up as he watches Draco go from his ring to his long finger, and guides it into his mouth, softly twirling his tongue around it. Harry can feel the flush crawling up his chest and into his cheeks, the tell tale of when he is aroused. Even the tightening feeling in his abdomen is there, but Harry isn’t thinking about sex. This is another kind of physical touch entirely, but it’s still intensely arousing. 

“Is this okay?” Draco whispers, hoarsely. He kisses the tip of Harry’s pointy finger while pressing his own to the pulse-point in Harry’s wrist. It’s a vulnerable position for Harry to be in, this, letting Draco know all there is to know about how much this is affecting him. The size of his pupils must give him away, too. But he wants it. It fact, he really, really doesn’t want it to stop. 

“Yeah” he whispers breathlessly and nods. Draco, after a second, nods too, and presses his lips to the pulse-point he found with his finger hard enough for Harry to think Draco must feel his pulse through his lips. For good measure, probably, Draco kisses Harry’s ‘I must not tell lies’ scar as well. 

He starts to pull the duvet away from where it is covering Harry’s chest. As soon as Harry realizes, he helps by pushing it down with his feet until it lands on the floor. He catches Draco smiling softly, but none of them say anything. 

Harry isn’t wearing a shirt, or sweatpants. Thankfully he sleeps in his boxers, although they provide flimsy coverage for what might start going on down in his pants in not too long, depending on what Draco decides to do next. 

“Is it okay if I just touch you?” Draco whispers in question. “I just want…” He lets the sentence trail off without finishing, but Harry nods either way. Whatever this is, he feels like he should give it room to exist. 

Harry takes Draco’s hand and puts it on his chest above his quick heartbeat before he says, “Yes.” For a moment their eyes meet, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat at how vulnerable Draco himself looks. Apparently it’s not just him who feels bare. 

When Harry lets go of Draco’s hand on his chest to allow it to do whatever it likes, Draco only moves it an inch or so downwards before it reaches Harry’s nipple. Here he lets his finger circle around it and over it, occasionally pinching it. Harry, giving up, gives into the wonderful feeling of it, and breathes out in a heavy sigh of arousal as he closes his eyes and arches his neck. It’s thrumming inside of him, the electricity, the intoxicating feeling. He nearly whimpers when Draco touches his nipple with his tongue. 

“Still okay?” Draco asks. Harry only nods, keeping his eyes closed. Draco must deem it acceptable, because then he starts drawing an invisible pattern on Harry’s stomach. A little later he draws something akin to the same pattern on the soft inner-arm skin of Harry’s left upper arm. Then he moves back down to his neck, wrapping his fingers delicately around it. Harry realizes that, in this position, Draco could easily choke him, but there’s something intensely thrilling about giving over his control like that, and putting his trust in Draco to this extend. And even then, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt safer. 

Draco kisses Harry’s neck then, and this time Harry does whimper. He also grabs hold of the headboard above his head, and arches his back subconsciously, his body trying to chase some of the friction it by now desperately needs. The part of Harry that is still in his mind knows that this isn’t what Draco wants or is most likely ready for, though, especially when it causes Draco to stop in his tracks. 

“Sorry,” he whispers in apology. Draco breathes out against the moist skin of Harry’s neck. For a while they just lie together and calm their breathing. When Harry is sufficiently calmed down, he runs his hands through Draco’s hair, where his head is resting on the space between Harry’s neck and shoulder. Touching Draco’s cheeks, Harry feels the warmth in them, and realizes that Draco is affected, too. 

“I’m not ready yet,” Draco whispers. Harry understands. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers back. So they simply lie together and just breathe. Harry thinks that’s good enough, too.


	5. Resolution

Harry wakes up the next morning to Draco sneaking out from under Harry’s arm wrapped around him. As if in reflex Harry momentarily tightens his grip on Draco’s hand when he finds it being pulled out of his own, alerting Draco to the fact that he’s awake in the process. He succeeds in stopping Draco in his getting-out-of-bed-process momentarily.

“Still okay?” he asks, repeating Draco’s words from last night. For a while it’s quiet and Harry is left with the darkness behind his closed eyelids before he feels his hand being squeezed by Draco’s.

“Still okay,” Draco confirms, so Harry lets him go, and after a brief moment hears Draco sneaking out of the bed quietly. 

 

He doesn’t see the other man when he gets up for a good an hour or so later, but he finds Neville in the living room, so eats breakfast with him instead, deciding to leave Draco alone for a while. Perhaps they both need their time to think.

Neville is out tending to some of the school ground’s plants that day, so Harry joins him. The fresh air can never hurt, and he should really spend more time with his friend. He lets Neville tell him about the plants as they walk through the greenhouse, Neville tending to some of them along the way. Neville spins his words confidently, clearly possessing a lot of knowledge that Harry doesn’t recognize. Neville has grown old, he realizes. None of them are the kids they used to be anymore. 

“So, I heard Draco sneaking out of your bedroom this morning. Are you together now, or what?” Neville asks when they tend to some sort of cabbages down by Hagrid’s cabin. Harry snorts.

“No, I don’t think you could call it that,” he says. “I’m not sure any of us really know what we are. You might actually be able to get a more accurate idea from observing us than either me or Draco have ourselves.” Neville smiles at that.

“Well, it looks like you like each other,” he says. 

“I like him,” Harry agrees. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Neville shrugs. “It’s understandable. You have history. And you might not be a terrible match, actually.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Neville says. They drop the subject for some time, letting the conversation drift off to other things. Neville apparently is in quite an emotional debacle himself. He’s in the middle of his own courtship with Luna. When he talks of her, Harry isn’t at any point doubting how infatuated Neville really is: His eyes are burning with it like supernovas. 

“I can’t imagine anyone who could fit better together than you two,” Harry smiles. Neville smiles too, like Harry saying that means something bigger than just being words. 

“Thank you,” he says and, Harry thinks, means it dearly. 

They’re by the lake before the subject of Draco is brought up again. Still, it’s Neville who mentions it:

“Can I say something?” he asks. Harry, of course, nods; curious.

“Right,” Neville says. “It’s just. You’ve been gone for these past years, so you aren’t really in the loop, but there’ve been quite a few bad things in the press about Draco. They don’t really like him, there.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He didn’t know. 

“He’s been here for a year now, and I’ve seen him almost every day. He’s really trying to redeem himself. Do something good for a change, you know. Prove he can, or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I’ve gathered.”

“Right, well,” Neville says. “You said you don’t really know what you two are. And I’m certainly not going to tell you what you should be. But I don’t really think that, press-wise, he can afford to take things as lightly as you maybe can. And– I don’t think he really takes any of this lightly at all. Certainly less than he might let on.”

Harry almost smiles, when he starts gathering where this is going.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“Just… Try and be sure? It’s a lot to get involved with if all you’re doing is… trying to explore old feelings, or what not.”

Harry does smile then. “Are you really giving me a ‘don’t hurt Malfoy’ talk? Can you believe it?”

Neville smiles as well, before it turns into a chuckle. “Never thought I’d see the day, I must say,” he smiles, and Harry laughs. Once their laughter has calmed down, Harry studies Neville.

“You’re a good friend, Neville,” he says. “To Draco, too.”

This time Neville’s smile is soft and almost melancholy, which Harry recognizes. When you don’t have a family, your friends take that place, and the love you feel for them can sometimes reach levels of unusual heights. Harry’s certainly been there. 

“Ta,” Neville murmurs. Harry rests his hand on Neville’s shoulder in response. 

“Oh, and for the record,” he says, “I think I am sure.”

__

Harry expected to feel some sort of tumult of emotions upon the first time of seeing Draco after last night, but instead he finds himself feeling calm and resolved; about his emotions and about what he wants. After his talk with Neville he’s decided that anything is better than the quiet; he’d rather have his honestly be met with anger or disgust, than his passiveness result in untaken chances.

“You sure look jolly,” Draco tells him when they see each other in the kitchen about five pm that evening. Harry is searching for the biscuits he knows are here somewhere, and makes a small exclamation when he finds them.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.” He sends Draco his best grin. Hesitantly at first, but then without restrictions, Draco smiles back. Harry shares his newfound biscuits with him in thanks. 

“Are you busy?” Harry asks. 

“Kind of. I have a potion brewing in the lab.”

“I’ll bring you some tea then, shall I?” Harry asks. Draco looks at him in wonder, perhaps at the change in his mood from yesterday. It’s amazing what feeling resolved can really do to you.

“Okay,” Draco agrees hesitantly. Harry smiles and stands on his toes to give Draco a quick kiss on the cheek before he makes his way to the kettle. 

“What was that?” Draco asks, but doesn’t sound upset. 

“I do that with all of my friends,” Harry says, even though he definitely doesn’t and that isn’t the whole truth. 

“Harry,” Draco says; he knows that it’s a lie. So Harry turns around to watch him, and grabs hold of Draco’s ring finger between two of his.

“I want to talk,” he says. “But lets do it later, when we have time. Yeah?”

Draco responds by studying their fingers touching, and then Harry’s face, his eyes drifting between his eyes and down to his mouth multiple times. A smile creeps up on Harry when he sees Draco’s eyes glued to his lips, but he also can’t help but notice the expression of conflicting and confused emotions in them, so he repeats, “We’ll talk. Tonight.”

Draco’s eyes move to Harry’s again, and then he nods, so Harry lets go of his finger.

“Now, shoo,” he says. After a brief moment, Draco does.

 

Harry comes by with the tea some five minutes later, and they draw the conversation into safe land by talking about Draco’s experiment. Or, well, Draco talks about it. Harry just listens and watches with delight as Draco’s eyes light up in excitement about his results. 

‘I might just be in love with this man,’ Harry thinks as he watches him, and finds that he’s entirely okay with that.

 

For the rest of the night Draco seems to be restless, fidgeting with his own fingers and any object that might come between them constantly. It doesn’t pass Harry’s notice, and he tries to smile reassuringly to him a couple of times without saying anything out loud with both Neville and McGonagall in the room, but to no avail. In the end Draco rises from his chair already at half nine, proclaiming, “I’m going to go to bed early tonight. I’m a bit tired today.”

Harry takes it as his cue, so five minutes after Draco has left, Harry gets up to follow. When he hugs Neville goodnight he mumbles to him: “Wish me luck. I’m going to attempt to date Draco Malfoy.”

Neville laughs loudly. “Good luck,” he smiles. “I believe in you.”

Harry does too. He believes in them.

 

He finds Draco in his own bedroom, lying on his back, his hands folded across his stomach as he watches the ceiling. Only his chest rising and falling in a more urgent pattern than usual gives his nerves away.

“Can I come in?” Harry asks, but doesn’t wait for the “Yes,” before he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“You know, they both know that you’re in here now,” Draco greets him, and raises his head just enough to make eye contact with Harry across the room.

“Let them,” Harry says.

He walks over to the bed, but instead of sitting on the end of it, or lying down next to Draco, he positions himself so he’s sitting astride Draco’s thighs. This clearly surprises the other man, but before he can say anything Harry reaches out and grabs his hand, bringing it up to his lips where he presses a kiss to the back of it.

“Is this talking?” Draco asks. Harry only smiles fondly.

“Can I start by asking you a question?” Harry says instead of commenting.

“Depends.”

“On what it is?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Harry says. “I want to know why you said no the first time I kissed you. And the times I’ve tried since.”

Draco sighs shakily, and turns his head to look away. “Diving right in, are we?” he mumbles. 

Harry, in reply, leans down and in, so their faces are almost aligned, as he runs his hands over Draco’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead. When Draco turns his face back to meet his eyes, their lips nearly graze against each other.

Draco exhales shakily again, and both their eyes fall to the place where they’re almost meeting. Draco lifts his head just the tiny fraction of an inch that it would take for their lips to touch, but Harry pulls away the same amount. Draco exhales again, and at the same time Harry moves in just enough for his lower lip to brush Draco’s upper one. He twists his fingers into Draco’s hair and smiles softly.

“What is it you’re scared of, Draco?” he whispers. As their eyes meet it’s so intense that they both move their head to breathe into the other’s cheek. 

“Falling,” Draco whispers then, into the skin of Harry’s cheek. His voice sounds like it could be tainted with tears. Harry swallows. This is the moment, he realizes; the moment where his entire life could change; the moment this relationship will be made or broken on.

He hopes what he says next will make it:

“What if I told you I might be falling, too?” Harry whisperingly asks. After a second he moves the centimetre away it will take to allow for their eyes to lock. Draco’s eyes are wide, his expression fearful and hopeful and nervous all at the same time.

“Don’t play games with me on this,” he says. 

“I’m not.” 

They stare at each other, breathing heavily. Draco raises his hand to rest it against Harry’s cheek. Harry finds it shaking. Putting his own over it to stop the trembling, he smiles reassuringly, and hopes that Draco understands. Maybe he does. At least he moves in the last bit, and then they are kissing. 

Harry feels simultaneously like all the air he’s ever had inside of him is being sucked out, and like he’s being filled up with more oxygen than ever before; feeling both like he’s giving away something of himself he didn’t know he had, and being filled with warmth he could never imagine. He wonders if this is what love feels like.

It becomes difficult to kiss then for all of his smiling. Their teeth clank against each other, and it’s awkward and absolutely perfect, and then Draco is grinning, too. Harry buries his head in Draco’s neck and chuckles, and kisses it, and kisses him again, before he has to pull back to just beam. He sits back on his heels so he can watch Draco, and relish in what he might just have gotten. He takes Draco’s hand and kisses the knuckles and laughs.

“What?” Draco says, but can’t even finish the word for his giggles. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Harry says matter-of-factly. Draco’s grin becomes impossibly wider, and he bites his lower lip. His eyes crinkle so much that Harry wonders if he can even see. God, he’s in love.

“Shut up,” Draco mumbles, and this time Harry actually laughs out loud. The relief of it, them and their love, the weight off his shoulders. It all makes him laugh even more.

“Scratch that,” he says. “I know I’m in love with you.”

Draco bites his lip even more. “Kiss me,” he says. So Harry does. 

He leans down again and presses his lips softly to Draco’s, catching his upper lip between his own. The first one is long, just the two of them finally feeling each other, but not long after Draco twists his fingers into Harry’s hair and opens his mouth just that last bit more, and then they are making out forcefully and passionately. Draco raises his head off the pillow to chase Harry’s face whenever he pulls away a bit for air. 

It’s also Draco who puts his hands up under Harry’s shirt, grabbing him tight and pulling him close by his shoulders, before he tugs at it as if trying to get it off. Harry pulls away for a second to remove it fully before he grabs Draco’s face with both of his hands to lick into his mouth again. He grinds their groins together, and they both gasp into the other’s mouth. 

“I really want to take you apart slowly and carefully sometime, but right now I just really need–“

“Fuck me,” Draco interrupts him with heavy breaths. He raises his head and catches Harry’s lips again, and then Harry must really be dying from arousal, because Draco puts his hand down Harry’s pants and wraps it around his cock. 

“Yes,” Harry agrees, but it comes out more as a moan than anything. Draco giggles and zips down Harry’s trousers, before trying to push them off him. Harry does the rest of the work for him, before he does the same to Draco’s pyjama pants. His boxers do nothing to conceal Draco’s arousal. Harry smirks and presses a kiss to the wet patch already forming on the front fabric. Draco’s head thuds against the headboard as he leans it back. 

Harry smiles into Draco’s thigh, and presses a soft kiss there, looking up and meeting Draco’s eyes with a smirk. Draco beckons him back with a twist of his hand. Harry crawls up along his body slowly, torturously. He stays over Draco’s face, and in their locked expressions they both see the affection of the other person. 

Still meeting his eyes, Draco reaches down to push his own pants down, kicking out of them, before he grabs onto the waistband of Harry’s and push those down as well. Harry smirks and leans down, so their now naked bodies are aligned and pressing against each other. Draco groans, and spreads his legs. Harry’s body shivers with arousal. Draco kisses him again. 

So they fuck. Lube is found and put to good use, and soon Harry is trying to push into Draco’s body, moving in as carefully as he can master. It takes a while, in between the waiting for Draco’s body to adjust. There’s no doubt when Harry hits Draco’s prostate though, because then Draco groans loudly and arches his neck, tightening his grip on Harry’s hair. 

“Harry,” he whimpers. His hair is a right mess, and his chest and face is flushed from the arousal and the physical extortion. Harry thinks he’s never seen anyone look more beautiful. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. Their fingers intertwine by Draco’s cheek as Harry moves in to kiss down his neck. 

“I know,” Draco says, pulling Harry in closer with his legs around Harry’s waist. “Shag me.”

Harry pulls back to consider Draco for a moment, just taking the sight of him like this in.

“Is it going to be today, Potter?” Draco asks then, smirking at him, before it turns into a full-blown grin. God, they’ve come so far. Quite literally, what with Harry being inside the other man and all. 

“Oh no you didn’t,” Harry grins, and moves to hit Draco’s prostate again, and they’re on. 

 

It’s sweaty and messy and hot, and Harry’s constant thought process is how he is quite literally being allowed to Draco Malfoy apart. He’s so in love. 

Afterwards they lie panting next to each other, Draco on his back, Harry on his side facing him. Their fingers are playing a game against each other between them, lifted over their bodies. 

“Did you talk to Neville?” Draco mumbles in question, watching their hands. 

“Yeah,” Harry admits. He watches as Draco smiles.

“I thought so,” he says. “I mean, no offence, but the two of us; sometimes I think we might get too caught up in our own heads.”

“Yeah,” Harry says again. “It’s good we have Neville, then. He’s a good guy.”

“Better than any of us probably,” Draco says. Harry laughs out loud. 

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Probably.”

Their eyes meet, both of them grinning. Harry chuckles again, before he leans in to press his lips to Draco’s, and then to his chest, where a red patch is showing. It must be the remains of his arousal-flush. Harry smiles into Draco’s jaw before he kisses it and kisses him again. Draco puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him in, squeezing him close and kissing his hair. Harry lets his head rest on Draco’s chest. 

“I don’t ever want to hurt you, Draco,” he whispers. His fingertips travel over Draco’s stomach, down to his abdomen, and back up to his nipple. “I want to make you happy.” Draco runs a hand through his hair.

“What if we face public backlash?” he asks. Harry places his hand in the middle of Draco’s chest, and rests on his own arm as he looks back up to the other man.

“It won’t matter,” he says. “It wouldn’t matter even if I didn’t have these emotions. You’re my friend, first of all, and I will stand by you.”

Draco smiles softly, before he leans in, and they press their lips together again.

“You are making me happy,” Draco says when they pull apart. Happy blooms in Harry’s chest and flutters around on its wings of glee. Then Draco pushes him back against the mattress and positions himself on top of Harry, their un-aroused bodies aligned, them touching each other’s hair. Harry holds Draco’s cheeks between his own two hands and kisses him on the bones beneath his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, because he is. Draco beams. 

“I’m in love with you, too, you know,” he whispers back. Harry thinks they’ll be alright.


	6. Epilogue

Harry wakes up to the sound of humming and light shining in from the overhead window, the smell of bacon in the air. For a moment he keeps his eyes closed, just listening, letting the feeling wash over him.

The flat is new, to them anyways. They still aren’t entirely unpacked, but they have the bed in the middle of the one large room, a filled bookcase, London right outside their door, and lots and lots of love between them. They don’t have the telly up and working yet, but when they have each other’s bodies and fresh honeymoon-phase feelings it hardly matters. 

Harry opens his eyes, and gets a look of the man who is humming so delicately to himself. Draco is standing by the stove, turning the sizzling bacon with a spatula. His feet are bare on the white-painted wooden planks, his toes thrumming against them with the rhythm of the song. His hair is scruffy and he’s wearing one of Harry’s old sweatshirts. He’s perfect, really. 

Draco flips the food over to two plates, and turns around. When he realizes that Harry is awake and watching him he beams so widely Harry is surprised it can even fit on his face.

“Hey, you,” Draco says fondly, bringing the plates over to the bed with him. As he hands one of them over to Harry, he takes the opportunity to press a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry smiles into it. 

“Morning,” he murmurs back. Then, to the plate: “Looks good.”

Draco shrugs. His smile is still tinted with sleepiness, and his eyes are slightly droopy, but filled with a light that even Leicester Square can’t match. 

They push their feet against the others while they eat. If Harry had watched them from the outside he’d been disgusted by their giddy smiles and lovesick eyes, but since he’s one half of the whole that they make up, he just loves it. Not as much as he loves Draco, though. Because damn, he loves him. And, really, that’s all that matters.


End file.
